CHAPTER X
THE HERMIT'S STORY
The hermit paused and gazed into the bed of coals on the hearth. Hislisteners waited without speaking. Constance did not move--scarcely didshe breathe.
"As I said, it may have been thirty years ago," the gentle voicecontinued. "It may have been more than that--I do not know. It was onthe Sound shore, in one of the pretty villages there--it does not matterwhich.
"I lived with my uncle in the adjoining village. Both my parents weredead--he was my guardian. In the winter, when the snow fell, there wasmerry-making between these villages. We drove back and forth in sleighs,and there were nights along the Sound when the moon path followed on thewater and the snow, and all the hills were white, and the bells jingled,and hearts were gay and young.
"It was on such a night that I met her who was to become Robin's mother.The gathering was in our village that night, and, being very young, shehad come as one of a merry sleighful. Half way to our village theirsleigh had broken down, and the merry makers had gayly walked theremainder, trusting to our hospitality to return them to their homes. Iwas one of those to welcome them and to promise conveyance, and so itwas that I met her, and from that moment there was nothing in all theworld for me but her."
The hermit lifted his eyes from the fire and looked at Constance.
"My girl," he said, "there are turns of your face and tones of yourvoice that carry me back to that night. But Robin, when he first camehere to my door, a stripling, he was her very self.
"I recall nothing of that first meeting but her. I saw nothing but her.I think we danced--we may have played games--it did not matter. Therewas nothing for me but her face. When it was over, I took her in mycutter and we drove together across the snow--along the moonlit shore. Ido not remember what we said, but I think it was very little. There wasno need. When I parted from her that night the heritage of eternity wasours--the law that binds the universe was our law, and the morning starssang together as I drove homeward across the hills.
"That winter and no more holds my happiness. Yet if all eternity holdsno more for me than that, still have I been blest as few have beenblest, and if I have paid the price and still must pay, then will I paywith gladness, feeling only that the price of heaven is still too small,and eternity not too long for my gratitude."
The hermit's voice had fallen quite to a whisper, and he was as one whomuses aloud upon a scene rehearsed times innumerable. Yet in thestillness of that dim room every syllable was distinct, and hislisteners waited, breathless, at each pause for him to continue. IntoFrank's eyes had come the far-away look of one who follows in fancy anold tale, but the eyes of Constance shone with an eager light and herface was tense and white against the darkness.
"It was only that winter. When the spring came and the wild apple was inbloom, and my veins were all a-tingle with new joy, I went one day totell her father of our love. Oh, I was not afraid. I have read oftrembling lovers and halting words. For me the moments wore lagginglyuntil he came, and then I overflowed like any other brook that breaksits dam in spring.
"And he--he listened, saying not a single word; but as I talked hiseyes fell, and I saw tears gather under his lids. Then at last theyrolled down his cheeks and he bowed his head and wept. And then I didnot speak further, but waited, while a dread that was cold like deathgrew slow upon me. When he lifted his head he came and sat by me andtook my hand. 'My boy,' he said, 'your father was my friend. I held hishand when he died, and a year later I followed your mother to her grave.You were then a little blue-eyed fellow, and my heart was wrung for you.It was not that you lacked friends, or means, for there were enough ofboth. But, oh, my boy, there was another heritage! Have they not toldyou? Have you never learned that both your parents were stricken intheir youth by that scourge of this coast--that fever which sets afoolish glow upon the cheek while it lays waste the life below and fillsthe land with early graves? Oh, my lad! you do not want my littlegirl.'"
The hermit's voice died, and he seemed almost to forget his listeners.But all at once he fixed his eyes on Constance as if he would burn herthrough.
"Child," he said, "as you look now, so she looked in the moment of ourparting. Her eyes were like yours, and her face, God help me! as I sawit through the dark that last night, was as your face is now. Then Iwent away. I do not remember all the places, but they were in manylands, and were such places as men seek who carry my curse. I neverwrote--I never saw her, face to face, again.
"When I returned her father was dead, and she was married--to a goodman, they told me--and there was a child that bore my name, Robin, for Ihad been called Robin Gray. And then there came a time when a stress wasupon the land--when fortunes tottered and men walked the streets withunseeing eyes--when his wealth and then hers vanished like smoke in thewind--when my own patrimony became but worthless paper--a mockery ofscrolled engravings and gaudy seals. To me it did not matter--nothingmatters to one doomed. To them it was shipwreck. John Farnham, ahigh-strung, impetuous man, was struck down. The tension of those weeks,and the final blow, broke his spirit and undermined his strength. Theyhad only a pittance and a little cottage in these mountains, which theyhad used as a camp for summer time. It stood then where it standsto-day, on the North Elba road, in view of this mountain top. Therethey came in the hope that Robin's father might regain health to renewthe fight. There they remained, for the father had lost courage and onlyfound a little health by tilling the few acres of ground about thecottage. There, that year, a second child--a little girl--was born."
It had grown very still in the hermitage. There was only a drip of therain outside--the thunder had rolled away. The voice, too, ceased for alittle, as if from weariness. The others made no sign, but it seemed toFrank that the hand locked closely in his had become quite cold.
"The word of those things drifted to me," so the tale went on, "and itmade me sad that with my own depleted fortune and failing health I coulddo nothing for their comfort or relief. But one day my physician said tome that the air and the altitude of these mountains had been foundbeneficial for those stricken like me. He could not know how his wordsmade my heart beat. Now, indeed, there was a reason for my coming--anexcuse for being near her--with a chance of seeing her, it might be,though without her knowledge. For I decided that she must not know.Already she had enough burden without the thought that I wasnear--without the sight of my doleful, wasting features.
"So I sold the few belongings that were still mine--such things as I hadgathered in my wanderings--my books, save those I loved most dearly--myfurnishings, my ornaments, even to my apparel--and with the money Ibought the necessaries of mountain life--implements, rough wear and astore of food. These, with a tent, my gun, the few remaining volumes,and my field glass--the companion of all my travels--I brought to thehills."
He pointed to the glass and the volumes lying on the stone at his hand.
"Those have been my life," he went on. "The books have brought me aworld wherein there was ever a goodly company, suited to my mood. Forme, in that world, there are no disappointments nor unfulfilled dreams.King, lover, courtier and clown--how often at my bidding have theytrooped out of the shadows to gather with me about this hearth! Oh, Ishould have been poor indeed without the books! Yet the glass has beento me even more, for it brought me her.
"I have already told you that their cottage could be seen from thismountain top. I learned this when I came stealthily to the hills andsought out their home, and some spot amid the overhanging peaks where Imight pitch my camp and there unseen look down upon her life. This isthe place I found. I had my traps borne up the trail to the foot of thelittle fall, as if I would camp there. Then when the guides were gone Icarried them here, and reared my small establishment, away from thetrack of hunters, on this high finger of rock which commanded the valleyand her home. There is a spring here and a bit of fertile land. It wasState land and free, and I pitched my tent here, and that summer Icleared an open space for tillage and built a hut for the winter. Thesturdy labor and
the air of the hills strengthened my arm and renewed mylife. But there was more than that. For often there came a clear day,when the air was like crystal and other peaks drew so near that itseemed one might reach out and stroke them with his hand. On such a day,with my glass, I sought a near-by point where the mountain's elbowjutted out into the sky, and when from that high vantage I gazed down onthe roof which covered her, my soul was filled with strength to tarryon. For distance became as nothing to my magic glass. Three miles itmay be as the crow flies, but I could bring the tiny cottage and thedoor-yard, as it stood there at the turn of the road above the littlehill, so close to me that it seemed to lie almost at my very feet."
Again the speaker rested for a moment, but presently the tale went on.
"You can never know what I felt when I first saw _her_. I had watchedfor her often, and I think she had been ill. I had seen him come and go,and sometimes I had seen a child--Robin it was--playing about the yard.But one day when I had gone to my point of lookout and had directed myglass--there, just before me, she stood. There she lived and moved--shewho had been, who was still my life--who had filled my being with a lovethat made me surrender her to another, yet had lured me at last to thislonely spot, forever away from men, only that I might now and again gazedown across the tree tops, and all unseen, unknown to her, make her thecompanion of my hermit life.
"She walked slowly and the child walked with her, holding her hand. Whenpresently she looked toward me, I started and shrank, forgetting for themoment that she could not see me. Not that I could distinguish herfeatures at such a range, only her dear outline, but in my mind's eyesher face was there before me just as I had seen it that last time--justas I have seen yours in the firelight."
He turned to Constance, whose features had become blurred in theshadows. Frank felt her tremble and caught the sound of a repressed sob.He knew the tears were streaming down her cheeks, and his own eyes werenot dry.
"After that I saw her often, and sometimes the infant, Robin's sister,was in her arms. When the autumn came, and the hills were glorified, andcrowned with snow, she stood many times in the door-yard to behold theirwonder. When at last the leaves fell, and the trees were bare, I couldwatch even from the door of my little hut. The winter was long--thewinter is always long up here--from November almost till May--but it didnot seem long to me, when she was brought there to my door, even thoughI might not speak to her.
"And so I lived my life with her. The life in that cottage became mylife--day by day, week by week, year by year--and she never knew. Afterthat first summer I never but once left the mountain top. All my wantsI supplied here. There was much game of every sort, and the fish near bywere plentiful. I had a store of meal for the first winter, and duringthe next summer I cultivated my bit of cleared ground, and produced myfull need of grain and vegetables and condiments. One trip I made to adistant village for seeds, and from that day never left the mountainagain.
"It was during the fifth winter, I think, after I came here, that agroup of neighbors gathered in the door-yard of the cottage, and myheart stood still, for I feared that she was dead. The air dazzled thatday, but when near evening I saw a woman with a hand to each childre-enter the little house I knew that she still lived--and had been leftalone.
"Oh, then my heart went out to her! Day and night I battled with theimpulse to go to her, with love and such comfort and protection as Icould give. Time and again I rose and made ready for the journey to herdoor. Then, oh, then I would remember that I had nothing to offerher--nothing but my love. Penniless, and a dying man, likely to become ahelpless burden at any time, what could I bring to her but added grief.And perhaps in her unconscious heart she knew. For more than once thatwinter, when the trees were stripped and the snow was on the hills, Isaw her gaze long and long toward this mountain, as if she saw the speckmy cabin made, and once when I stretched my arms out to her across thewaste of deadly cold, I saw a moment later that her arms, too, wereout-stretched, as if somehow she knew that I was there."
A low moan interrupted the tale. It was from Constance.
"Don't, oh, don't," she sobbed. "You break my heart!" But a moment latershe added, brokenly, "Yes, yes--tell me the rest. Tell me all. Oh, shewas so lonely! Why did you never go to her?"
"I would have gone then. I went mad and cried out, 'My wife! my wife! Iwant my wife!' And I would have rushed down into the drifts of themountain, but in that moment the curse of my heritage fell heavily uponme and left me powerless."
The hermit's voice had risen--it trembled and died away with the finalwords. In the light of the fading embers only his outline could beseen--wandering into the dusk and silence. When he spoke again his tonewas low and even.
"And so the years went by. I saw the sturdy lad toil with his mother fora while, and then alone, and I knew by her slow step that the world wasslipping from her grasp. I did not see the end. I might have gone, then,but it came at a time when the gloom hung on the mountains and I did notknow. When the air cleared and for days I saw no life, I knew that thelittle house was empty--that she had followed him to rest. They two,whose birthright had been health and length of days, both were gone,while I, who from the cradle had made death my bed-fellow, stilllingered and still linger through the years.
"I put the magic glass aside after that for my books. Nothing was leftme but my daily round, with them for company. Yet from a single volume Ihave peopled all the woods about, and every corner of my habitation.Through this forest of Arden I have walked with Orlando, and with himhung madrigals on the trees, half believing that Rosalind might findthem. With Nick the Weaver on a moonlit bank I have waited for Titaniaand Puck and all that lightsome crew. On the wild mountain top I havemet Lear, wandering with only a fool for company, and I have led them infrom the storm and warmed them at this hearthstone. In that recess Romeohas died with Juliet in the Capulets' tomb. With me at that table JackFalstaff and Prince Hal have crossed their wit and played each the roleof king. Yonder, beneath the dim eaves, in the moment just before youcame, Macbeth had murdered Duncan, and I saw him cravenly vanish at thesound of your fearsome knocking.
"But what should all this be to you? It is but my shadow world--the onlyworld I had until one day, out of the mist as you have come, so Robincame to me--her very self, it seemed--from heaven. At first it lay in myheart to tell him. But the fear of losing him held me back, as I havesaid. And of himself he told me as little. Rarely he referred to thepast. Only once, when I spoke of kindred, he said that he was an orphan,with only a sister, who had found a home with kind people in a distantland. And with this I was content, for I had wondered much concerningthe little girl."
The voice died away. The fire had become ashes on the hearth. The dripof the rain had ceased--light found its way through theparchment-covered window. The storm had passed. The hermit's story wasended.
Neither Constance nor Frank found words, and for a time their hostseemed to have forgotten their presence. Then, arousing, he said:
"You will wish to be going now. I have detained you too long with my sadtale. But I have always hungered to pour it into some human ear before Idied. Being young, you will quickly forget and be merry again, and ithas lifted a heaviness from my spirit. I think we shall find the sun onthe hills once more, and I will direct you to the trail. But perhaps youwill wish to pause a moment to see something of my means of providingfor life in this retreat. I will ask of you, as I did of Robin, to saynothing of my existence here to the people of the world. Yet you mayconvey to Robin that you have been here--saying no more than that. Andyou may say that I would see him when next he builds his campfire notfar away, for my heart of hearts grows hungry for his face."
Rising, he led them to the adjoining room.
"This was my first hut," he said. "It is now my storehouse, where, likethe squirrels, I gather for the winter. I hoard my grain here, andthere is a pit below where I keep my other stores from freezing. Therein the corner is my mill--the wooden mortar and pestle of ourforefathers--and here you see I have pr
ovided for my water supply fromthe spring. Furs have renewed my clothing, and I have never wanted forsustenance--chiefly nuts, fruits and vegetables. I no longer kill theanimals, but have made them my intimate friends. The mountains havefurnished me with everything--companions, shelter, clothing and food,savors--even salt, for just above a deer lick I found a small tricklefrom which I have evaporated my supply. Year by year I have added to myhouse--making it, as you have seen, a part of the forest itself--that itmight be less discoverable; though chiefly because I loved to buildsomewhat as the wild creatures build, to know the intimate companionshipof the living trees, and to be with the birds and squirrels as one oftheir household."
They passed out into the open air, and to a little plot of cultivatedground shut in by the thick forest. It was an orderly garden, withwell-kept paths, and walks of old-fashioned posies.
Bright and fresh after the summer rain, it was like a gay jewel, setthere on the high mountain side, close to the bending sky.
It was near sunset, and a chorus of birds were shouting in the treetops. Coming from the dim cabin, with its faded fire and its story ofhuman sorrow, into this bright living place, was stepping fromenchantment of the play into the daylight of reality. Frank praised thevarious wonders in a subdued voice, while Constance found it difficultto speak at all. Presently, when they were ready to go, the hermitbrought the basket and the large trout.
"You must take so fine a prize home," he said. "I do not care for it."Then he looked steadily at Constance and added: "The likeness to her Iloved eludes me by daylight. It must have been a part of my shadows andmy dreams."
Constance lifted her eyes tremblingly to the thin, fine, weather-beatenface before her. In spite of the ravage of years and illness she saw,beneath it all, the youth of long ago, and she realized what he hadsuffered.
"I thank you for what you have told us to-day," she said, almostinaudibly. "It shall be--it is--very sacred to me."
"And to me," echoed Frank, holding out his hand.
He led them down the steep hillside by a hidden way to the point wherethe trail crossed the upper brook, just below the fall.
"I have sometimes lain concealed here," he said, "and heard mountainclimbers go by. Perhaps I caught a glimpse of them. I suppose it is thenatural hunger one has now and then for his own kind." A moment later hehad grasped their hands, bidden them a fervent godspeed, and disappearedinto the bushes. The sun was already dipping behind the mountain topsand they did not linger, but rapidly and almost in silence made theirway down the mountain.
The Lucky Piece: A Tale of the North Woods Page 11
